


the answer to it all (is in the back of my mind and on the tip of my tongue)

by waferkya



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, First Meetings, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings & Shenaningas, Mutual Pining, Possessive Eddie Diaz, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Texting, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29891517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: Soft, dark hair, just long enough to begin curling at the tips; expressive eyebrows and an impossibly straight nose that should belong on some Greek statue, full pink lips stretched in a wide smile just this side of goofy, and a wonderful amount of stubble dusting his jaw; broad shoulders hugged to perfection by the dark blue police uniform, his entire body a stretch of tight muscle. Yeah, yup, yes. Chim is not wrong. The man is handsome as sin. Also, he’s a cop, which—hi, hello, that’s hot.[AU in which Eddie is a cop who just moved to LA; Buck has zero self-esteem, a praise kink the size of the desert and no clue on how to pick a decent Dom; and eventually love conquers all.]
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Comments: 15
Kudos: 190





	1. everybody sees, everybody agrees

Here’s the thing: contrary to popular belief, Buck is not under the misguided impression that he is a flawless human being or, as Maddie had put it once, a beautiful cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure. He knows he’s got issues, and he even has a fairly precise idea of where those issues are coming from; also, he can tell he’s getting worse.

He’s got a high pressure, demanding job that shoves him in the face of mortal danger and long-lasting trauma more often than not, it’d be weird if he wasn’t constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He used to self-medicate with random hook-ups and the happy endorphins that come from them, but then Bobby tore him a new one about his ridiculous sexcapades—and he was right, pretty much about everything. Buck had never wanted to be that much of an asshole, so he’s gotten his act together.

Being with Abby helped so much, or he used to think it did. Now that she’s left, Buck is starting to see that maybe he was just swimming—sinking—in denial, making himself too busy to really dwell on anything that wasn’t about her and their relationship and her mother and her grief. And yeah, he’s probably being unfair, but she _did_ run halfway across the world, leaving him hanging with a vague promise that sometimes tastes like a coward’s break-up speech, so, yeah, Buck’s not feeling too charitable. He loves her, he does, but when he can’t sleep at night no matter how exhausted he is, because he feels lonely and small and unworthy and terrified of the dark, and he knows that if he calls her, nine times out of ten she won’t pick up her phone? Yeah, that love is pretty much useless on its own.

Even without Abby, though, he’s been good on the job, he’s been great, never slipping back into old habits, but his stellar track record these past few weeks means that the restlessness has got nowhere to go. It’s pooling inside him, something sticky and vicious, waking him up in the middle of the night soaked in sweat, whispering in his ear to go and take that one extra risk, throw himself into the collapsing building not wasting any energy on thinking about a way out, only to prove that he’s good enough, that he deserves to wear the 118 shield, that he’s not a burden—

Yeah. Buck is a teeny tiny bit of a mess. The others notice, of course, because they’re nothing short of wonderful people, and they try to help however they can—Chim and the constant stream of teasing, Hen and the fifty thousand books she insts they read together, Bobby and the ever more frequent cooking lessons. Buck is not an idiot, he sees that every single moment of every day they are telling him he is valued, he is important, but, well, it’s tough making the thought stick, sometimes. He’s still missing something.

Sex, mostly. Not in general—the specific sorts of feelings he felt when he was having sex with Abby. It sounds weird, and it probably is, but that’s what Buck misses the most about being with her. Abby knew exactly what she wanted in bed and she pointed him in all of the right directions, smiling so softly at his enthusiasm, and she would be so fucking generous with praises, her words whisper-sweet and reverent, telling him how good he was to her, how amazing that felt, how perfect, how right—Jesus, even just the thought is enough to get Buck all hot and bothered.

(The nights when he’s being completely honest with himself, Buck is able to admit that he didn’t seek out that sense of accomplishment only through sex with Abby; it was their entire relationship that was built on him bending over backwards to make her happy, to make her proud. Maddie would say he was being a total doormat, as usual. On those particularly pitiless nights, Buck is inclined to agree.)

One day, during a tough call with an upended schoolbus and half a dozen kids scattered across the steep side of a hill, Buck hears someone crying over the crest and all but flings himself over it without a second thought. He sets the girl’s broken leg, patches up a nasty gash on her forehead and then proceeds to spend forty-five minutes grappled against a rock when the dirtroad falls under their feet. The girl is tucked safely in the shade between him and the rough stonewall, and he keeps her awake with dumb jokes and made-up stories about his life until a Hail Mary gets them back to safety. His arms are screaming murder at him, after, but Bobby looks at him with something softer than usual in his eyes, he claps Buck on the shoulder and says, loud enough that everyone hears: “Great job, son.”

Buck stumbles on his own feet. Chim checks him over for severe heatstroke. Buck just flushes and thinks that, fuck, he really needs to move on from Abby and get laid.

His first day off, however, Bobby is having a barbecue at his and Athena’s place, everyone’s invited, and Buck isn’t going to say no to that just because he’s touch-starved and his dick is starting to hate him. Besides, he can always hit the bars after the party, a little sweaty from manning the grill and playing with the kids all afternoon. (He knows he won’t; every time, even if it’s supposed to be just for lunch, things inevitably stretch out well into the evening, and then everyone stays for dinner and drinks after; Buck is usually among the last to leave, because his family is here and his apartment is quiet and empty.)

He shows up at the door a little late, because he spiraled out of control fussing over his hair. He baked a shitload of cookies when he couldn’t sleep the night before, brought a six pack of an artisanal microbrew for the crowds and a bottle of top-shelf red wine that seems to truly impress Athena. She kisses his cheek and winks, hiding the bottle in a cupboard so she can come back to it later in secret—“Oh, I’m not sharing this with anyone, Buckaroo,”—and Buck blushes, pleased with himself.

The sun is bright, the sky is clear, the beer is cold and just the right amount of bitter, the burgers juicy and rich, Buck is being shamelessly ribbed by Hen, Karen and Chim about the Hot Firemen Calendar, and Harry and Denny are using his leg as a ramp for their hot wheels race. All in all, it’s pretty much a perfect day.

Then, Chim stops demolishing his burger for a second, looking over Buck’s shoulder, a strip of crispy-to-the-point-of-almost-burnt bacon hanging from his open mouth.

“Gross, Chim,” Buck laughs, raising his hand to pull on the bacon—which will make the entire situation even more gross, yes, but also it’s funny—but Chim leans back out of reach, chews, swallows, and blinks.

“Okay, that is a beautiful man,” he says, and immediately Hen and Karen and Buck all turn around in the direction he’s pointing.

_Huh_ , Buck thinks. _Yeah_. Soft, dark hair, just long enough to begin curling at the tips; expressive eyebrows and an impossibly straight nose that should belong on some Greek statue, full pink lips stretched in a wide smile just this side of goofy, and a wonderful amount of stubble dusting his jaw; broad shoulders hugged to perfection by the dark blue police uniform, his entire body a compact stretch of tight muscle. Yeah, yup, yes. Chim is not wrong. The man is handsome as sin. Also, he’s a cop, which—hi, hello, that’s hot.

“Where is the lie,” Hen whispers, her eyebrows shooting up even as Karen whistles softly under he breath in appreciation.

Buck keeps staring. The cop is talking to a couple of colleagues and Buck devours his strong biceps, traveling down a mile of tan skin until he fixates on his hands, palms wide and long, lean fingers wonderfully wrapped around one of the beers from the pack that Buck brought. Unaware of Buck’s eyes on him, the cop lifts the bottle to take a sip and Buck watches his throat work, strong tendons taut along his beautiful neck and Buck would pay his weight in gold to get a chance to put his mouth there and—

Karen smacks him around his head. Buck laughs, suddenly blushing.

“Yeah, sorry, what—it’s… it’s been a while,” he says, taking a long gulp from his own beer, trying not to think about the cop’s lips wrapped around a very similar glass. It’s an empty effort and he squirms, dislodging Denny’s toy car from his leg. The kid glares, Buck ruffles his hair. “Sorry, buddy.”

“Are we _finally_ moving the fuck on from Abby, Buck?” Hen says, just a touch of fond exasperation in her voice.

Buck steals one more glance over his shoulder at the handsome stranger, sees him politely excuse himself from the group he’d been talking with to go get another beer.

Buck clears his throat and shoots up before he can think about it. “Huh. I’ll let you know.”

Hen laughs, and as he goes, he hears Karen and Chim cheer him on a little too loudly.

Buck doesn’t corner the poor man, not exactly. But he does come up behind him at the drinks table just as he’s turning back with a brand new beer, and it’s only a matter of inches and subatomical breadths when they don’t knock into each other.

“Hey,” Buck says, the corner of his mouth curling into a flirty grin when those big brown eyes turn up to him. The cop blinks, purses his lips for a second in confusion—pretty, so fucking pretty, this is some Disney-prince-level bullshit—then he rolls with it, leaning back.

“Hi.”

Of course he has a nice, soft voice. Buck might be flailing on the inside, just a little. A super catchy pop song is blasting from inside the house, probably May’s choice, gushing about a mighty good man, and as far as soundtracks go, it couldn’t be more accurate.

“So, Officer, are we, uh, being too loud? Disturbing the neighborhood?”

The cop tilts up one eyebrow, bites back a grin. Is it the sun playing unfair tricks on Buck, or are this man’s eyes seriously so sparkly and warm?

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, hooking one thumb in his belt and taking a pull from the beer, condensation rolling down the bottle to wet the tips of his fingers. “I’m off duty right now.”

“Ah,” Buck says, and then wants to kick himself for what tumbles out of his mouth next: “Well, then, if you want to get out of your uniform, uh, I think it’ll look great on—on my bedroom floor.”

_What?_ Christ. He hasn’t said that out loud, has he? No, he has. This celibacy thing is… getting out of control. Buck cringes, bracing himself for the inevitable—totally deserved—insults, maybe even a punch, and already he’s thinking about Athena’s disappointed glare when she finds out how much of a rude asshole he’s been to her guest, but instead, after half a second of stunned surprise, the cop actually laughs.

“Don’t quit your day job to become a comedian, buddy, that was terrible,” the cop says, ducking his head and smirking and looking up at Buck from under his lashes. It almost looks like—he’s blushing, a tiny little bit. Buck needs Hen to check him over, he’s clearly hallucinating.

“Yeah, sorry, I know,” he manages to cough up, then holds out his hand in the very small space between their bodies, suddenly realizing how close they’ve been standing. “Evan Buckley. Everyone calls me Buck. I work with Bobby at the 118?”

He’s not sure why his voice slipped, tilting up at the end like it was a question. Well, no, he knows why: the cop has just took his hand, his grip firm and warm, his thumb brushing oh so lightly over Buck’s knuckles, and Buck can feel all the little calluses on his fingers. Shit. Okay.

“Sergeant Diaz,” the cop says, putting a humorous, smirking emphasis on his rank. Buck’s mouth has been dry for the past few minutes, but now his throat is kinda parched too. He finds it unfairly hard to let go of Sergeant Diaz’s hand, but he manages to, and takes a sip from his now warm-ish beer.

“What, no first name?” he croaks eventually.

“Don’t think you’ve earned it yet, Buck,” Diaz says, nonchalant as hell, and okay, shit, fuck, God, what? The look that Diaz is giving him is downright _filthy_. Buck is sure he’s not imagining this. Pretty sure. Please Christ let it be that he’s not imagining this.

Is he really so desperate to get laid that he’s praying in his head? Yeah. Yes. If it means he might get a chance to climb Sergeant Diaz like a tree any time in the near future, then yeah, absolutely, Buck will pray to any deity that comes to mind.

“Are you harassing my new recruit already, Buckaroo?”

Athena’s teasing voice is the ice-cold shower Buck didn’t know he needed. She comes up to them, a glass of red wine in her elegant grip—it’s Buck’s wine, he knows it is—and smirks at Buck before turning a more indulgent, welcoming smile to Diaz.

“Yeah, yes, I think I am,” Buck says, all honesty and breathless laughter.

“We’re having fun,” Diaz says mildly, shooting Buck an amused glance before taking a pull from his beer. Buck feels a sudden urge to point out that torture is vehemently prohibited under the Geneva Convention.

Athena puts her hand on Diaz’s forearm, “I’m glad you’re here. And straight off your shift, too.”

Buck watches their exchange with a touch of awe. He can tell that Athena isn’t just being the perfect, polite host. Her smile is genuine, her words ring heartfelt and true. She said Diaz is a new recruit, but already he’s earned her respect, which isn’t a small feat at all, Buck should know. So, in addition to his startling good looks, Diaz must be one hell of a man; Buck was already beginning to suspect it, with the way he’s been taking Buck’s teasing in stride and with good humor, but if Athena holds him in such good esteem already? This is like spilling gasoline over a wildfire, and Buck—trying not to be too giddy thinking _mom likes him too mom likes him too mom likes him too_ because, what?—finds himself leaning towards Diaz even more, basically invading his personal space, their arms pressed together, and holds his breath when the cop doesn’t move away.

Diaz grins, charming and so fucking handsome. “Thank you for having me.”

“Oh, please. You’re already a house favorite. And next time, I promise I’ll check in so we can make this happen on a day that Chris is free to come, too.”

“Ah, you’re too kind. I’m sure he would love it.”

And that—well. Okay. That makes sense, although Buck suddenly feels very stupid and little and cold. Of course, Diaz has a partner. Look at him. No way someone that looks like that—someone that can charm the implacable Athena Grant in the blink of an eye—could ever be single. _Of course._ Something unpleasant burns at the back of Buck’s throat, and it’s a mix of jealousy and confusion, because he could’ve sworn that just a few moments ago, Diaz was giving back looks as good as he was getting. Hell, Buck was ready to fall on his sword on it. But no, obviously, all of that was just friendly banter and Buck is once again the idiot who reads too much into things.

Why would someone like Sergeant Diaz want to flirt with him anyway?

His self-esteem kicked to the curb and his expectations awfully downsized, Buck is ready to flee the scene as quickly as he can without being an impolite asshole. But Athena excuses herself after a moment to go greet another guest, and Buck finds himself alone with Diaz again, pinned on the spot by his brown eyes. Shit. Fuck.

“So,” Diaz says, his smirk back in full force, and Buck has to count his breaths and reminds himself that this is entirely friendly. “Wanna know my name or not?”

Diaz nods towards the foosball table on the opposite side of the garden, a challenge clearly tucked in the perfect bow of his mouth. Buck knows that he shouldn’t, which is precisely why he bites right away.

“Hell yeah. I hope you’re ready to spill your social security number too, Sarge.”

Diaz laughs, and it’s a good thing Buck had already turned away, because the sound alone is enough to make his heart flop like an idiot.

The rest of the afternoon goes like this: Buck and Diaz become the main attraction at the party—after Bobby’s award-winning braised short ribs, of course—by daring each other into increasingly silly games and activities. All the kids get involved pretty quickly too, and in between rounds of tug-of-war and musical chairs, Buck incessantly tries to guess Diaz’s name.

“Give up, Bernardo, c’mon, go home with some dignity,” he yells, running laps around the house with Denny on his back bellowing in utter delight. Diaz, half-strangled by Harry’s arms at his neck, laughs and shakes his head, ducking for a final sprint that ends the run in a draw.

“Alejandro! You can’t do that,” Buck protests when Diaz makes a weird move with his king and his rooks, and then May gently proceeds to explain to him that, no, castling is a perfectly valid move in chess. After losing that one, Buck bans from the competition any other game that involves a board.

“What, your arms burning already, Fernando?” Buck grins, and it’s not his best trash talk ever but he feels very light-headed and ridiculously happy because he’s been holding a handstand for so long he’s starting to forget which way around the world is supposed to be. Chim is hovering, split between amusement and worry. Buck’s only consolation is that Diaz isn’t looking too good either, his cheeks bright red and a veil of sweat on his forehead.

“Try again,” he mutters through gritted teeth, and he’s taken off his regulation belt with the holster and the badge and the radios a while ago, so his shirt comes untucked easily, dragging down just enough to expose a bit of skin, and inevitably Buck’s attention zeroes in on that. He’s only human, after all.

“Roberto?” Buck asks, trying to keep the strain out of his voice.

“Buck, are you—are you quoting that Gaga song right now?” Chim says, and Buck’s smile turns sheepish, _oops, busted_. He sees the exact moment realization hits Diaz, and it’s so fucking hilarious, the way his eyes go round and he looks so insanely offended—

Of course, that’s when Diaz decides he’s done being a respectful opponent, and instead of admitting defeat he knocks his legs into Buck’s, bringing both of them down. And Athena’s garden has a slight slope, okay, anyone can see that, and that’s the only reason they end up rolling down the grass for a good minute or two, a tumble of limbs and laughter and Buck’s hands grabbing onto Diaz’s incredibly wide shoulders, holding on for dear life.

Buck can’t seem to catch his breath even when they stop. It might be because suddenly he finds himself with an armful of hot policeman, wonderfully sweaty and out of breath, Diaz’s eyes alight like the fucking sun, his mouth within biting distance, one of his warm wide hands splayed shamelessly on Buck’s hip.

“Uhm, hi,” Buck says, biting his lip, and Diaz’s aftershave is earthy and sweet and intoxicating and at this point Buck’s not that averse to the idea of making a fool of himself—well, a bigger fool of himself—in the middle of Athena’s garden.

“Hi yourself,” Diaz smirks back, which Buck considers a totally acceptable response. Of course, this moment is not really a moment, because while Buck might be filled to the brim with warm shivers and an incredible urge to lean in and put his tongue on the hollow of his neck, Diaz is already taken by someone named Chris. Nothing is happening here.

Before Buck can do any of the irreparably stupid things he’s thinking about, Denny and Harry come rolling down after them and crash into his side, shattering the pleasure of Diaz’s vicinity into a sharp flare of pain at his hip and ribcage, and Buck laughs in relief, despite himself, and rolls around to start a tickling war with the two kids. Diaz wisely decides to sit this one out.

Thank God for small mercies.

A few hours later, the sun is down, most guests are on their way home and Buck hasn’t learned Diaz’s first name. It’s okay, though. He’s warm and full of food and he saw Bobby put away a couple of tupperwares Buck is sure will be coming home with him tonight. Denny fell asleep with his head in his lap, and when Karen comes to pick him up gently, Buck realizes he’d been dozing off a little, too.

“You good to drive home?” Karen asks, cupping his cheek. Buck stretches, rolls his shoulders to get some blood flowing.

“I’m okay. Thanks, Kar.”

“Thank _you_ , Buck. You can come by the house and wear him out any time you want, alright?”

She winks, Buck laughs quietly and nods, waving goodbye to Hen too. He could get up and give her a hug, but it’s not like he’s not going to see her in a few hours anyway.

He steps inside after a minute, and the house is quiet, warm, peaceful. He’s got half a mind to ask Bobby if he can crash here, the couch is great, but then he remembers he hasn’t done laundry in two weeks and he’s running short on clean underwear and shirts. Being an adult fucking sucks sometimes. He shuffles into the kitchen, carrying a few dirty plates from outside.

“Thanks, kid,” Bobby says, taking the plates from him. “You look dead on your feet. Do you want me to give you a ride?”

“Nah, thanks, I’m alright.”

“You sure? It’s not a hassle.”

Buck chuckles a little, makes grabby hands at the fridge. “Just gimme those leftovers and nobody gets hurt.”

Bobby rolls his eyes, but he does as he’s told.

Athena comes downstairs to say goodbye just as Buck is putting on his jacket, a tote bag of food tucked safely under his arm. She hugs him, which is a little bit of a surprise, actually. Buck looks around at the very few guests left behind. He’s about to ask after Sergeant Diaz, if he left while Buck was taking his hard-earned nap, but he bites his tongue and kisses Athena’s cheek instead.

“Thanks for today, I had a great time,” he says. From the amused look she’s giving him, he knows that she knows what—who—he’s thinking about. It throws him for a loop, a little. Athena knows that Diaz is taken. Why is she giving him that predatory smirk like she’s about to sneak a condom in his back pocket and telling him to be safe?

Buck is still confused, but mostly sleepy, as he stumbles out of the door and across the driveway, fishing his keys from his pocket. Someone’s sitting on the patio, a soft voice speaking low in a strange language. Buck looks over, and of course it’s Diaz, he’s on the phone staring at his feet with the sweetest expression known to mankind. Buck trips on the gravel a little, Diaz looks up and sees him. The corners of his eyes crinkle a little—that’s just completely unfair, really—and he holds up one finger with a tiny question on his face, _wait for me a sec?_

Buck nods, dumbly.

“Yeah, yes, vale, cariño, lo sé, nos vemos mañana prontito, está bien? Vale, ay, buenas noches. Te quiero,” Diaz says into the phone, and Buck is not a language expert, not in a million years, but he’s listened to enough crappy pop songs to know what _te quiero_ means, thank you very much.

Even as Diaz walks up to him with the same teasing smirk on his lips, Buck can feel his heart be squeezed into dust.

“You’re sneaking out without saying goodbye?” Diaz asks, tilting his head to the side.

Buck shrugs, goes for carefree and probably misses by a mile: “Didn’t see you inside, I thought you’d already left.”

Diaz looks contemplative for a moment, his eyes never leaving Buck’s, not even for a second.

“You okay to drive?”

That actually startles a chuckle from Buck.

“Everyone’s asking me that…”

“Well, you look like shit,” Diaz says, laughing a little.

Buck rolls his eyes. “Gee, thanks. Take a 24-hour shift on top of a double nighter, and then we’ll see how _you_ look.”

Probably still picture-perfect hot, Buck can admit to himself. Diaz smiles like he can read his mind. He reaches out, though, and squeezes Buck’s forearm for a moment. Buck is very tired, all of a sudden, and pretty sad that this dream of a man just waltzed into his life only to be yet another reminder that, no, Buck, you’re not enough for anyone.

Well. Diaz’s hand has not let go of his arm and this is getting awkward.

“I’m gonna…” Buck says, gesturing vaguely with his keys. Diaz nods, like he’s shaking himself awake.

“Yeah, no, of course. I’ll see you around.”

“Yup,” Buck says, and doesn’t add, _unfortunately_. He turns to leave, but before he can take his first step, Diaz calls out for him again, his voice gentle.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s already a pavlovian response, Buck turning back to look at him, all beautiful gold and soft shadows in the dim warm lights of Athena’s front yard. “It’s Eddie.”

Buck pulls his eyebrows together. “What? You scoundrel. I’m pretty sure I did say Eduardo.”

Diaz— _Eddie_ , huh—laughs and clicks his tongue. “Edmundo.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Wanna see my ID?”

Buck bites back all the very inappropriate knee-jerk responses to that. Pulls the brakes, breathes in and out, comes up with a smile and not a single comeback that’s appropriate for a man who he’s just witnessed say goodbye, very lovingly, to his partner.

“See ya, Eddie.”

Eddie. It rolls off his tongue very fucking nicely.

“Get some rest.”

Buck throws him a casual salute without turning around.


	2. see if i stand firm or if i fall

Here’s the thing: Eddie is not exactly what you’d call a people person. He’s polite and soft-spoken and he can even be charming when the situation requires it, but he’s not an extrovert in any shape or form. Jesus, he only had three friends in high school and he ended up marrying one of them. (The other two he keeps in contact with sporadically, mostly around birthdays and the holiday season; one of them moved to a really inconvenient timezone in Canada, and the other is a career Marine. It’s not great, but it is what it is.)

So, when he decided to uproot his life and move halfway across the country to snag a field promotion and a significant pay raise, it’s not like he was giving up a bubbly, intense social life to go be adrift and lost and alone in the big city. He’s a quiet bastard of a homebody and a single father on top of that. A Friday night couch is a couch is a couch, in El Paso as much as it is in LA. If anything, the move was going to expand his relations, because he’d have Abuela and Aunt Pepa a short drive away. Family that he wants to actually spend time with.

Eddie is not lonely, he loves his kid and the only thing he wants is to spend his down time with Christopher, making up—compulsively—for lost time. It’s a perfectly good lifestyle, one he’d adapted to pretty quickly in Texas.

Athena Grant doesn’t believe him for a second. The minute she meets him, she decides he needs to put down roots in LA, not just polite smiles with colleagues he can tolerate but friends-shaped roots, and every waking moment after that she spends enforcing her vision. Of course she is infinitely gracious and subtle and elegant about it, so Eddie doesn’t really realize what she’s doing until he’s, like, two months in, restless and losing his goddamn mind in the last hour of the most boring shift in history because he’s actually looking forward to dinner at the Grant-Nash household.

It hits Eddie like a freight train, a little.

Unbeknownst to him, he’s been sucked into a community of people who genuinely like him and never, ever engage in small talk. All it took was for Eddie to show up at work, at one backyard cook-out one afternoon, and follow-up drinks the week after. He went from zero friends to more than three contacts in his phone and having to mercilessly mute group chats. Eddie has Athena and Bosko at the station, looking out for him and stealing his coffee; but also Bobby and his kind eyes and polite horror when Eddie tells him eighty percent of his meals come out of a box, constantly forwarding him simple recipes that Eddie fucks up anyway; and Bobby’s co-worker Hen, with her dry wit and an endless willingness to share, in private, all the woes of raising a son in a non-traditional household; and he goes running with Chim now, twice a week or whenever their schedules miraculously align.

And then Eddie has Buck, of course. Shit, does he have Buck. He has it _bad_ for Buck, really, and it’s a dumb, childish crush that Eddie didn’t need—but also, one that he’s oddly happy to carry tucked safely in his ribcage.

Eddie is not outgoing. He’s awkward around new people. He has a callous sense of humor, partly foraged by his years in the Army, that falls flat on any regular crowd. He’s not a pleasant conversationalist.

Those are all things he knows about himself; the tiny little rocks he has used, throughout the years, to build a mausoleum to his chances at meaningful human relationships.

Buck took all of those certainties and tossed them back in Eddie’s face within twenty seconds of meeting him. He laughed at his jokes. He didn’t find Eddie’s stupid game about his name to be inappropriate or idiotic—which it was, seriously; instead he took it and literally ran with it, and Eddie had to almost tear a tendon to keep up with the handstand challenge. Eddie found himself laughing with Buck and gravitating towards him with an ease he didn’t expect; he didn’t even knew it was possible other than with Christopher; and honestly, he doesn’t know how to survive it.

Because, see—Eddie, having had so few close relationships that he can count them on one hand, isn’t equipped to deal with complications. And having a new friend to whom he is most definitely stupidly attracted is the _peak_ complication.

They met a few days after the cookout, briefly, on a call where Buck was rescuing a girl trapped in an elevator after an apartment fire and Eddie was there to arrest the arsonist roommate who had purposely put a knife in the microwave. They had nodded at each other in the hallway, Buck with his cheeks slightly pink and a shy grin that seemed to suggest that, yeah, he had no doubts the image of him in a harness would populate Eddie’s late lonely nights for the next few thousand years.

Eddie had wanted—needed, really—to say something, but then the arsonist had bitten his hand trying to wiggle free and the time for words was over.

At the end of that very shift, Eddie had scrolled through his texts to find out he’d been added to a group where Chim had shared pictures of the barbecue. A lot of pictures. Really, too many pictures. And most of them were chronicling Eddie and Buck’s stupid challenge.

Anyway. Eddie had Buck’s number now.

Later, at home, he’d been on his second beer, mulling over whether or not he should do something about the ten digits he’d been staring at since he’d put Christopher to sleep, when his phone lit up with a text notification.

 _22:01 - Buck: hey sarge, thought of you https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ_

His heart fluttering stupidly, Eddie had clicked the link and cringed a little at the cheesy, synth noises pouring from his phone’s tinny speakers. He’d listened to the song twice, brow furrowing, trying to make sense of why Buck would send him that.

 _22:13 - Eddie: That’s a nice sentiment, I guess?_

Not Eddie’s best moment. Buck had to explain Rickrolling to him. It was humiliating. By the end of that conversation it was well past midnight, Eddie was bright red and feeling all of ninety-seven-years old, but at least he’d made Buck laugh—so hard he’d fallen out of bed, according to Buck himself _and_ to the picture he’d sent Eddie, of a half-unmade bed with dark sheets and not enough pillows, shot from a floor angle by slightly shaking hands.

So, they text now. Oh, do they text. Even if Buck types with the energy and intelligibility of a toddler on a sugar high and their hours are often mismatched, they text.

Eddie has the privilege to introduce Buck to nihilist pugs (thank you, Christopher), which then Buck becomes so obsessed with that Eddie gets a flurry of disgruntled texts from everyone at the 118 thanking him _for nothing, Diaz, he’s putting up these pictures all over the place, we can’t even go to the bathroom without a pug telling us life’s a pendulum between pain and boredom_. They keep it light, easy and mindless, sharing traffic tips and movie recommendations and funny pictures and random trivia, which Buck appears to be terribly fond of.

 _11:13 - Buck: didja kno san francisco is moving towards la 2in per year  
11:13 - Buck: its the san andreas fault  
11:12 - Buck: lol--san sandreas fault’s fault, get it?  
11:15 - Buck: 2in per year is also the rate at which fingernails grow  
11:16 - Buck: didja know  
11:16 - Buck: DIDJA  
14:37 - Eddie: I, in fact, did not know any of that.  
16:21 - Buck: HAH.  
16:23 - Eddie: Are you still at work?  
16:25 - Buck: in btwn calls  
16:26 - Buck: but yeah  
16:26 - Buck: it’s a 24hr shift baby  
16:27 - Buck: y?  
16:30 - Eddie: Nothing, but I just signed off my shift and I wanted to eat.  
16:31 - Eddie: I’m thinking tacos.  
16:31 - Buck: :(  
16:32 - Buck: :(((((((((((  
16:32 - Buck: u literally broke my heart  
16:33 - Buck: u cruel cruel monster  
16:34 - Eddie: Oh, okay.  
16:36 - Eddie: I was just going to tell you about this new true crime podcast I found, but I guess I can keep it for my cruel, monster self.  
16:36 - Buck: gimme!!!1!!!!111!!!!!_

Christopher is delighted with all the—G-rated— _dank memes_ Eddie is now able to share with him. Bosko rolls her eyes so hard she’ll probably sprain something every time she catches him smiling like a dummy at his phone. Athena looks outrageously pleased, like this little secret of Eddie’s is somehow also part of her schemes—and Eddie doesn’t want to think too much about the implications of that, his boss meddling with his private life even further, thanks. He’d like to be able to talk to her without turning bright red every time.

It’s harmless, really. But it’s constant, and comforting in a way, and definitely flirty at times, if Eddie can say so himself.

*

 _06:13 - Buck: so hey quick question  
06:13 - Buck: if u up  
06:14 - Eddie: I am. Are you still awake or already awake? What’s going on?  
06:25 - Buck: heyyy  
06:25 - Buck: aha still awke iguess  
06:26 - Buck: so um is driving while severly sleep deprived a crime  
06:26 - Buck: allgedlly_

Eddie, who was shaken awake from a nightmare of slashing winds and thin sand hours ago, sits up in bed instantly. His brain’s already running a mile a minute, weighing the surely unpleasant idea of waking Chris up half an hour early to put him in the car and run to the station, against the infinitely worse possibility of Buck crashing into a tree on his way home because he’s too exhausted to drive—it’s a non-issue, really, and should he be worried of how easy the decision comes to him?

 _06:27 - Eddie: Not technically, but it is dangerous and reckless, Evan.  
06:27 - Buck: ugh i figurd  
06:28 - Eddie: Are you at the firehouse? Do you need a ride home? I can be there in 15.  
06:29 - Buck: aw u timed it  
06:29 - Buck: no wrries called uber  
06:31 - Eddie: Okay.  
06:31 - Eddie: Good choice.  
06:32 - Buck: thx  
06:32 - Buck: u called me evsn  
06:35 - Eddie: That’s your name, isn’t it?_

The bubble indicating that Buck is typing appears and disappears twice. Eddie is up and out of bed now, pacing his room for the few, infinite minutes it takes Buck to reply.

 _06:47 - Buck: i lik eit  
06:47 - Buck: im home now  
06:48 - Buck: makes me warm n fuzzy_

Eddie feels himself flush; this is a little beyond their usual level of banter, but Buck is drunk on exhaustion, he can’t possibly be blamed for anything he’s saying. Plus, he could very well be referring to his apartment making him feel warm and fuzzy. It’s pretty ambiguous, Eddie tells himself.

As he’s wracking his brain trying to put together a comeback that doesn’t make him sound like an asshole, Eddie’s phone buzzes again.

 _06:53 - Buck: sorry  
06:53 - Buck: m very tired_

Eddie swallows even though his throat is dry; he has the distinct feeling something just happened, but he’s not sure what. His thumbs move on the keyboard without even needing input from his brain.

 _06:53 - Eddie: Get some rest, sleepy head._

Eleven hours later, Buck rickrolls him again.

*

By the end of the first week of nearly stream-of-consciousness-constant texting with Buck, Eddie decides that this is getting ridiculous. Also, Bosko threatening to castrate him to put him out of his misery—“because seriously, Eds, if you are not using that thing you might as well just give it up” were her exact words—might’ve been the push he needed.

He puts Christopher to bed, they read another two chapters from the second Harry Potter book, the one with all the illustrations of the big scary snake that Eddie has diligently photographed and sent to Chim because he is a little bit of an asshole. When Christopher is sound asleep, Eddie wanders into the kitchen, grabs himself a beer and, elbows on the island, bites his lip and brings up his text conversation with Buck, tapping away before losing his nerve.

The last message is from a few hours back, the fire truck busted two wheels on the way back from a call so the entire team was forced to ride in the thankfully empty ambulance. Buck had to get on the gurney. They took a selfie.

 _21:37 - Eddie: Hey, I kind of feel like this is long overdue—do you want to go out sometime?  
21:38 - Eddie: I know a pub with a decent pool table, you can buy me a couple rounds of beer to level the field._

Is he thinking about Buck bending over the table, his strong fingers wrapped around the cue? Of course. Is he going to feign ignorance until the day he dies? _Of course_. Eddie puts down the phone slow and steady, as if it were a live grenade, and downs his beer in four big gulps. Then he relocates to the couch, puts on a cooking show rerun he half-watches, and gets no answer from Buck for over an hour.

It’s strange, because Buck should be off work by now, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it too much. Maybe they’re on a call that went into overtime; maybe he’s already fast asleep at home. Eddie stretches off the couch and goes to bed, trying—with poor results—to keep any and all thoughts out of his head.

The morning after, Buck’s side of the conversation is still conspicuously silent. Eddie worries his bottom lip between his teeth throughout breakfast, and makes a terrible job to dispel Christopher’s curious questions about his foul mood.

“It’s nothing, just some annoying email from work,” he says, but he knows the kid doesn’t believe him even for a second.

Bosko takes one look at his face and throws her hands up in defeat.

“You’re not gonna blame _me_ , are you?” she asks, and in a weird way—because they’re good friends by now, strangely enough—Eddie knows she’s just trying to be sympathetic.

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, even though it’s most definitely not and he can feel Athena’s piercing eyes burning a hole into the back of his head.

He goes out to protect and serve the good citizens of Los Angeles and luckily, work is overwhelming so he doesn’t quite get a chance to mope around too much.

He’s eating consolation McDonald’s in a parking lot when he checks his phone and finds the most amazing string of sentences ever put together by a human being.

 _12:45 - Buck: sorry, phone died!  
12:45 - Buck: if ur up for a public humiliation im all in mister  
12:46 - Buck: is next monday ok?  
12:51 - Buck: and am i finally gonna meet the infamous christopher?_

Eddie snorts around a mouthful of Big Mac that suddenly tastes like victory. He figures it’s a joke, Buck mentioning Christopher, because really, a ten-year-old at a night out in a pub? How does that make sense? But at the same time, something warm and sweet stirs inside him at the thought of Buck meeting Christopher.

He’s quick to shove that treacherous feeling down, bury it deep, salt and burn its remains. He’s only met the guy once, Jesus Christ, and yeah, Buck was great with the kids at the barbecue, but—it’s not the time to fantasize about playing house with him. Eddie needs to slow the fuck down. 

_12:53 - Eddie: Somehow, I don’t think that the combination of you, me, beer and Chris in the same room would end well. It’s just a feeling that I have.  
12:54 - Eddie: I’ll get my schedule for next week tomorrow, and I’ll let you know about Monday. It should be fine though.  
12:55 - Buck: cool  
12:59 - Buck: but seriously if he wants to come it’s fine by me  
12:59 - Buck: k?_

Eddie rolls his eyes and brushes it off as just another very Buck thing, being weirdly considerate about a kid he’s never even met to the point of being willing to share Eddie on their first night out ( _date_ sounds so creepily middle school, sheesh).

Of course, life is the monkey wrench solidly stuck between Eddie’s wheels. They try and set up a day and time but their schedules are a mess. Their shifts never match to begin with, Buck manages to beg one overnight off but then Hen is sick with some stomach bug that’s going around Denny’s school so he can’t take the time off anymore; then Eddie gets stuck on a terrible call that turns into an arrest that turns into giving a statement to no less than the FBI, because apparently they tripped on some Most Wanted gun smuggling ring shit; then Buck’s sister is back in town, and Abuela breaks her hip, which upends Eddie’s life into a nightmare, and he’s more zombie than human for a while there.

They chase around each other for almost two weeks, and never find a night off to actually meet. It’s insane. If Eddie were one to believe in signs and that kind of bullshit, he would think that the universe has a reason to keep him away from Buck.

They still text all the time anyway, conversation flowing easy and light as usual, so there’s no hard feelings, just the slightest tang of frustration at the back of Eddie’s throat because, Jesus Christ. This is the longest goddamn foreplay he’s ever had to endure in his life.

And if, once or twice, in the small hours of the night Eddie picks up his phone because he cannot, for the love of God and country, find it in himself to go the fuck to sleep; and he texts Buck; and Buck answers immediately, sweet and awake; and if Eddie burrows himself further down under the covers and presses the call button, his heart in his throat as he waits for the line to connect; and if Buck’s soft _hey_ makes his heart jump further up, like it’s trying to escape from his body; and if they don’t really talk about anything relevant, and Eddie falls into peaceful, dreamless sleep to the steady sound of Buck’s breathing pressed into his ear, well. That’s not something they discuss.

*

(There’s something Eddie doesn’t realize: because Buck feels strangely like someone he’s known his entire life, Eddie has never thought about spelling out certain things for him. Remember, he’s not a people person. He’s not used to having to recount his life from the top every time he meets someone new. And he is a proud father, appointed himself the proudest father in the world a few years ago, but he’s also not the kind of person who obsessively brags about everything and anything their kid does.

In his conversations with Buck, he has mentioned Christopher, of course, because Christopher is the center of his fucking world and Eddie is ready to die for him any minute of any day. So it’s _going to pick up Chris_ here and _traffic almost made us late_ there, and _sorry, Christopher was beating my ass at Mario Kart_ and _I made a valiant effort at fettuccine Alfredo but you should’ve seen Christopher’s face, I think he’s going to move in with my abuela_ and _she definitely loves him more than me, it’s disgraceful_. Also, Eddie never sends photos of Christopher around because he’s from a different generation—by a hair’s breadth, but still, it makes all the difference,—one where pictures were few and far in-between, precious and private.

Here’s the thing: by the time the late night calls start happening, Buck is under the impression that he’s definitely having an emotional affair with a taken man. It’s not ideal.)

*

The hours in the night shift have the peculiar ability to stretch out into infinity. Eddie doesn’t know shit about physics, but he’s pretty sure that shouldn’t be possible. And yet here he is, on his sixth cup of coffee, bored out of his mind and restless. He took a quick glance at next week’s schedule, and it was enough for his poor heart to sink six feet underground. Barring some sort of miracle, he’s not going to be able to meet up with Buck this time around either.

He thumbs at his phone, entertaining the idea of calling Athena and beg her to meddle, to give him some peace of mind. But he won’t, not yet. He’s giving himself another couple of days of utter despair before he doubles over and runs crying to mom for help.

He could call Buck. Now, that’s a thought. They haven’t had a proper conversation on the phone yet; not one that didn’t end up with one or both of them falling asleep while mumbling aimlessly. It could be a nice change of pace, and it’s not so late that it would be unbecoming to call.

Still, Eddie hesitates. If he ends up redirected to voicemail, he’s not sure how he’ll take it. So he tells himself he’s not calling because he’s working, it would be inappropriate, and a waste of tax payers’ money.

The radio crackles, dispatch calling in for support at an address that sounds oddly familiar to Eddie—an on-going altercation at a club, might need to make some arrests. Eddie is close to the spot so he responds, turns on the engine and drives, grateful for the distraction.

He arrives in time to catch the tail end of the brawl. Three guys are going at it between them, shouting and shoving and throwing clumsy punches. Even from a distance, Eddie can tell they’re all pretty wasted. There’s a crowd outside the club, a mix of smokers and people waiting in line to get in, even if it’s the middle of the week. From inside comes the throbbing pulse of EDM, rich basslines, the occasional excited shrill shout.

As Eddie approaches, the tallest of the three manages to land a pretty nasty uppercut on the biggest guy—and Big Guy must have some shit karma following him, because as he stumbles back, the third one’s elbow lands neatly into his nose. There’s a loud crack, then the tell-tale sound of a body hitting the pavement, and finally a shocked silence from everyone gathered around.

Eddie picks up his pace and radioes it in, barely holding a sigh. “Dispatch, this is Sergeant Diaz—I need an ambulance to my location. Make that two if you can spare ‘em.”

“Copy, Sargeant,” comes the crackling response.

Eddie flashes his badge to part the crowd and assess the situation, then stands shellshocked for a second, because—

Big Guy is passed out on the sidewalk, his face covered in blood, and kneeling next to his head, checking his pulse and his breathing with quick, competent motions, is Buck.

“Hey, c’mon, man, wake up,” Buck is murmuring, then he must’ve found a pulse because the tense line of his shoulders visibly relaxes. He’s wearing a paper-thin white shirt—he’s shivering in the cold—soaked all over his back with sweat; and black jeans that hug his body like a second skin; combat boots, laces undone, which Eddie-the-soldier had never suspected could be so fucking attractive; and an olive green silicone bracelet on his bony wrist, which is an odd detail that stands out to Eddie for reasons he can’t quite put together yet.

“Buck?” he croaks, and he can only lose a fraction of a second to watch Buck nearly jump out of his skin, turn those impossible blue eyes wide and disbelieving onto Eddie, his pink mouth dropping just a little bit open—because the other two guys are still going at it, and Eddie really, really needs to step in.

By the time he’s calmed them down and handcuffed them both, stoically ignoring the ridiculous lovers’ quarrel going on between them, Big Guy is being loaded into the back of an ambulance and a vaguely familiar paramedic is coming over to check the other two.

Eddie takes a breath, and takes a minute to regroup.

He knows this place. Bosko took him here his first week in the city, claiming it was a “life experience” to be enjoyed as soon as possible. It’s a gay dance club famous for the high quality of the drinks and for its cordoned-off, very classy sex parties. Well, when Eddie had called them that, Bosko had clicked her tongue and explained to him that the club merely offered a safe space for people to explore certain kinks and meet like-minded individuals. No judgment, no creeps. Safe, sane and consensual through and through.

“They have a whole system, with like, color-coded bracelets and everything,” she’d said, and then had offered to take Eddie into the back and show him around, but he’d shook his head and sipped the best, most aromatic paloma he’d ever had—which, coming from a Texan, is a big compliment.

She gave him the rundown anyway and Eddie remembers what an olive green bracelet means. It’s burning a merciless hole in his throat, a coal of jealousy slowly making its way down into the pit of his chest. He sees Buck shoo away the first ambulance with a laugh and a wave, then sobering up and hesitate before coming up to him. He’s still shivering, his crisp shirt now stained with blood, and he shoves his hastily-cleaned hands deep in his back pocket, either to keep them warm or to hide the bracelet.

He leans back against Eddie’s patrol car and gives him a shy smile. Eddie doesn’t have to think before he’s shrugging out of his heavy jacket and handing it over. He’s wearing thermals underneath anyway.

“Oh,” Buck says, his eyes going wide, as if this is a universe in which Eddie could’ve just stood there and let him freeze. He slips it on easily and, despite the height difference, it still sits a little big around his shoulders. He zips it up all the way with a relieved sigh. “Thanks. Mine is inside, I didn’t think to grab it before I, uh…”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, because he’s a poet.

There’s a stretch of silence, and it’s not the comfortable kind they’ve shared over the phone, too tired to summon words, entirely too happy to just listen to each other breathe. This is awkward, so fucking painfully awkward, and it’s all Eddie’s fault, because—because he’s been thinking about this, about the next time he’d see Buck, and meeting him outside a sex club in the middle of a fight was not, it was _not_ how he wanted it to happen and he isn’t—he isn’t good with these things, he isn’t ready.

Buck is so beautiful but he looks worried and embarrassed and he’s rolling his shoulders in and Eddie hates himself, because he’s the one putting that fear on Buck’s face, it’s because of him and his lack of a definite reaction that Buck is trying to make himself small.

Eddie’s chest is tight and refusing to take in enough air, because an olive green bracelet means that tonight Buck was in there, available and willing to fucking _sub_. And now Buck is wearing Eddie’s jacket, carrying Eddie’s name on his chest, and it’s messing with Eddie’s head a little, a lot, a whole fucking lot, with how much he likes it.

It’s insane and Eddie knows, logically, that he oughta pull the handbrake on this entire situation. He doesn’t have any claim—any _saying_ —on what Buck does and does not; this is not a thing, between them, not yet.

If he doesn’t get a grip on himself, it might never be.

Eddie blinks and tries to rein in the possessive asshole in him. He reminds himself this is the same person he’s been talking—just talking—to for the past two months. Easy conversation, terrible humor, nihilist pugs. This is Buck. It’s okay.

“It’s good seeing you,” he says, earnest and raw. It feels like they’ve been standing there in silence for fifty years but it can’t have been more than a handful of seconds.

Buck bites his lip and looks at Eddie from under his lashes, a small, shy grin finding its way to the surface. “Finally.”

Eddie laughs a little at that, and feels the knots around his lungs loosen. “Yeah.”

“I mean, I feel stupid now, that I never thought about it. I should’ve totally faked an emergency, like, three weeks ago,” Buck says, just this side of rambling. “Could’ve made an entire thing of it. Started a fight club or something.”

Eddie cannot resist the magnetic pull that Buck has on him. He takes a few steps, closing the gaping distance between them, and leans back against the car next to Buck, knocking their shoulders together.

“If you do, Bobby’s gonna have my head,” Eddie says. “And I’m sure Athena would love to put yours on the mantel.”

Buck actually shivers in fear, which has both of them laugh softly.

“Well then, y’know, you could always cook dinner,” Buck says then, and for a split second Eddie believes the smooth fucker just invited himself over—but then Buck’s lopsided, shit-eating grin hits home and he realizes Buck was making a joke at the expense of Eddie’s non-existent cooking skills.

“Oh, a-ha, you’re hilarious,” Eddie deadpans, and Buck breaks into adorable giggles. Eddie grins and says, “Remind me to never actually introduce you to Christopher, you two would have a field day with me.”

Buck stiffens a little at that, and Eddie wonders, vaguely, if he’s overstepped. Buck shuffles his feet on the concrete, purses his lips to the side.

“So what’s he up to? Christopher,” he says, in a strange, polite voice.

Eddie furrows his brow. “Right now? It’s a school night. I sincerely hope he’s asleep.”

“Right,” Buck says, still distant. Eddie looks at him, curious, but whatever answer he wanted to find on Buck’s face, he forgets all about it the moment he catches his eyes and, well, he has no energy left for thought, at that point.

Shit, fucking fuck, whoever allowed this man to have such blue, earnest eyes must be a sadist, out for Eddie’s blood. Eddie presses his shoulder more firmly against Buck’s; he thinks about leaning in even further, wants to cup Buck’s jaw and touch his thumb across his bottom lip, pull on it a little, feel how velvety and plump it is, maybe push the pad of his finger into the lovely warmth of his mouth, chasing Buck’s tongue, evoking, sealing a promise. Buck would let him. Eddie knows he would. Not because of the green bracelet, Eddie knows that too; but because of six rounds of musical chairs on a sunny afternoon, because they’ve been laughing with each other more than Eddie has ever done with anyone, because he tricked him into watching truly awful movies just to prove he could, because never seeing each other has not kept them from becoming _something_ , because after every long and terrible shift Buck knew he would have links to a podcast or a video essay on natural disasters or a song—silly or beautiful or cringe-worthy or tear-jerking—waiting for him on his phone, because Eddie gave Buck his jacket without even thinking, because when Eddie calls, no matter the hour, Buck answers.

If Eddie were to lean in right now, Buck would meet him halfway.

But whatever moment was building up is broken by the paramedics slamming the second ambulance’s back door, and Eddie is shaken back to reality.

“They’re good to go, Sarge,” the paramedic says, handing back Tall Guy and his boyfriend—maybe ex-boyfriend; Eddie has kinda lost the plot there. Anyway, he clears his throat and nods, shoving both of them in the back of his patrol car. They can do couple’s therapy in county jail.

He turns to Buck with an apologetic smile—he’d spend the rest of the night hanging out with him in silence, but he’s still working. Buck nods, _I know_ , and he moves to unzip the jacket, but Eddie shakes his head.

“Keep it, it’s okay,” he says, even if it’s silly—Buck has his own coat in the club, and the Chief will tear him a new one when he asks for a replacement, but Eddie doesn’t really care. Nothing is more important than the bittersweet pang he feels watching Buck in his jacket.

Thankfully, Buck doesn’t press the issue. He simply shrugs and smiles, sheepish.

“Thanks. I’ll see you around?” he says, just a hint of hesitation, then: “I mean. Don’t burn down your house just to see me, please.”

Against his better judgment, Eddie smiles. “I can’t make promises.”

Buck laughs like it’s been startled out of him. “Alright.”

He turns to go, but Jesus, Eddie isn’t gonna let him just yet.

“Hey,” he says, and when he grabs Buck’s forearm he does regret the jacket a little, because if it was just the thin cotton of Buck’s shirt under his fingers, he would’ve probably felt his skin. “You did a really good job on that guy.”

Because out there in the cold on a sidewalk with people shoving their phones in his face hoping to go viral and in the midst of all that chaos, Buck had managed to reset Big Guy’s nose and probably spared him a surgery and a lifetime of breathing problems.

Buck flushes a deep red at the compliment; he opens his mouth to brush it off, but Eddie stops him before he can voice the thought.

“I was a medic in the Army,” Eddie reminds him, not unkindly. “I know a job well done.”

Buck shuts his mouth and drops his eyes to where Eddie’s hand is still wrapped around his arm. After a moment, Eddie lets go.

“Uhm. Thank you,” Buck says under his breath, looking everywhere except at Eddie’s face. Tall Guy and the ex are starting to yell at each other in the car; their voices are muffled, but still annoying enough. Buck chuckles, Eddie rolls his eyes and goes around to the driver’s side.

Buck waves, so fucking incredibly cute, and half-turns away.

“Make good choices,” Eddie calls after him, dryly. Then, to soften the blow: “Good night, Evan.”

There’s no way he could miss the blush on Buck’s cheeks and Eddie thinks, _yeah, warm and fuzzy_. Getting in the car and driving away is unbelievably hard.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD  
> SHENANIGANS!!!!! i'm having way too much fun with this, sorry
> 
> i belatedly realized that nihilist pugs do not exist outside of the italian memesphere? it’s… pictures of pugs… with nihilist quotes on them… it’s… nonsense internet at its best, i don’t know why it’s funny but iT IS I SWEAR
> 
> i'm totally married to the hivemind idea that buck is a chaotic low caps/no punctuation/tumblr tag texter while eddie is all proper spelling and capitalizations and even ends his texts with periods (it’s a miracle he doesn’t sign them, let's be real here), i think it’s adorable
> 
> a lot of thanks to everyone who kudos'd and commented on the first chapter, i love you guys!


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